


Radio Waves

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Reunion, coded messages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Mary's health fails, Sherlock (post-Reichenbach/still in seclusion) and John communicate in an unorthodox way. The reunion following Mary's death is depicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radio Waves

**Author's Note:**

> For once, I wrote something for myself. I was driving home from breakfast when the idea for this fic hit me, and I had to write it. I really didn't know where it was going beyond the covert communication, but I really like where it led me. Nothing was what you would call "intentional" or "orchestrated"... I just watched and transcribed. So, if you don't like where it went, feel free to take it up with the Sherlock and John who reside permanently in my brain! ; )
> 
> Thank you to acrumblebatchwithcustardfreeman and trebletea for all their help!

John sat in the parlour, Mary knitting behind him, request line coming across the radio. John sighed. She insisted they listen every week, and he hated it. She told him it was romantic. As a little girl, she had dreamed of falling in love over the request line. There was something about the slight anonymity, the communication through song that made her heart swell. He rolled his eyes, but it seemed to make her smile. He loved to see Mary smile. 

The DJ was finally wrapping things up for the week… _Thank God…_ but there was still one request. John shifted in his chair, itching to get up and finally turn off the blasted noisemaker. He could feel her glaring, and he settled back in, waiting patiently for the final song of the night. “This one is going out to J.W. from S.H. with the message: Just because you’ll never hear it doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be said.” _Those initials._ He shuddered. It couldn’t have anything to do with him, but the very thought of it.

 **_I heard that you’re settled down  
_ ** **_That you found a girl and you’re married now  
_ ** **_I heard that your dreams came true  
_ ** **_Guess she gave you things I didn’t give to you_ **

**__** **_Old friend, why are you so shy?  
_ ** **_Ain’t like you to hold back or hide from the light_ **

**__** **_I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited  
_ ** **_But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it  
_ ** **_I had hoped you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded  
_ ** **_That for me, it isn’t over_ ** ****

John’s heart stopped. It couldn’t be. He was dead. Still… the words haunted him. He spent the whole week acting strangely, entirely not himself. Mary chuckled when he was the one to remind her the next week it was time for request line again. He worried she might catch on, but only because he knew something she didn’t. He had responded… just in case. He found himself anxious again as the last song of the night neared, but his reasoning was different this time. _Here goes._ “Our last request goes out from The Blogger to His Dearly Departed with the message: You’d be proud. I’m observing.” 

 **_It’s the third hardest thing I’ll ever do  
_ ** **_Leaving here without you  
_ ** **_And the second hardest thing I’ll ever do  
_ ** **_Is telling her about you  
_ ** **_She’s been good to me  
_ ** **_When things were going rough  
_ ** **_How can I tell her now, good ain’t good enough  
_ ** **_Oh, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do  
_ ** **_Is holding her and loving you_ ** ****

**_If she’d give me one good reason, I’d be gone  
_ ** **_But she ain’t done one thing wrong  
_ ** **_So don’t expect me to just walk out of the door  
_ ** **_I still love her, but I love you more_ **

_Anonymously sending a love song to your dead flat mate… Where does that even rank on the sliding scale of adultery?_ It didn’t matter. Sherlock was dead, and John was just admitting the things he hadn’t been able to say before the fall. His therapist encouraged him to get it all out, and maybe this was the best way to do it. He was almost certain she wouldn’t approve. Mary didn’t notice the look of guilt on his face when he turned off the radio and went to bed.

Another week passed, and he felt more and more ridiculous. How could a grown man be anxious to hear if his dead best friend sent him a new song? Mind boggling or not, there it was. He could hardly contain himself. When he got home, Mary told him they had dinner plans with friends. He said it was fine; he lied. She wasn’t doing well, though. He daren’t refuse, especially not for such a wildly inappropriate reason.

When they piled into the car after dinner, Mary flipped the radio on just in time for the end of their weekly show. “Finally, another request to J.W. from S.H., adding: Do you ever visit me? Well, that’s cryptic. Here you go, S.H.”

 **_There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea  
_ ** **_You became the light on the dark side of me  
_ ** **_Love remained a drug that’s the high and not the pill  
_ ** **_But did you know that when it snows  
_ ** **_My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen  
_ ** **_Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the gray  
_ ** **_Ooh, the more I get of you, the stranger it feels, yeah  
_ ** **_Now that your rose is in bloom, a light hits the gloom on the gray_ ** ****

**_There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say  
_ ** **_You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain  
_ ** **_To me you’re like a growing addiction that I can’t deny  
_ ** **_Won’t you tell me is that healthy, baby?_ **

_Really? Seal? Why?_ John was perplexed. He was further confused when he heard Mary ask, “What’s wrong with Seal?”

“Hm? What? Nothing. Why?”

“You said, ‘Really? Seal? Why?’ What’s wrong with Seal?”

“I did?” He floundered. “Yeah, no, of course I did. It’s just rather old, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s sweet.” She smiled.

“No, you’re right. It is.” John pondered, but silently this time. _What could it mean?_ His brain mocked him, assuring him he was crazy for even thinking he was the J.W. in question. Those initials could have belonged to anyone, S.H. too.

They drove home mostly in silence. Well… Mary talked, but John wasn’t listening. He only hoped it wasn’t important. Even if it made him a terrible husband, he had more important things on his mind. _More important?_ What was his life becoming?

They turned in for the night, the message clearly still weighing on John’s mind. _Seal. Seal. Seal._ It was nearly 3am when he woke in a cold sweat, shaking, and sat straight up. “GRAVE!”

Mary startled at his side. “What? Huh?” She rubbed her eyes. “What’s wrong, John? What’s happening?”

“No, baby… nothing. Go back to sleep.” He hugged her before coaxing her head back to her pillow. _‘Kiss from a rose on the grave.’ I always sang the lyrics wrong, and he loved to take the piss about it. ‘Do you ever visit me?’ He wants me to come to his bloody grave._

John slipped quickly out of the bed. He dressed in the dark and quietly closed their bedroom door behind him. Luckily, the medications made Mary a rather heavy sleeper, even if he had just woken her not long ago.

The drive to the cemetery was lonely but anticipatory. He didn’t know what he expected to find. It would almost certainly be disappointing, whatever it was... or wasn’t. When he arrived, he stumbled out of the car. The walk to the marker wasn’t long, but it felt like it took ages. The polished marbled shone in the moonlight, a silhouette of something atop the stone standing out against the night sky. A closer inspection revealed a single, long-stem red rose. All questions of his sanity melted away, and he sank to the soggy earth. Tears flooded his eyes. One of two things was true: either someone was playing the cruelest game ever, or Sherlock was alive. And, no one knew about Seal… no one but Sherlock. He could almost hear the man’s voice ringing in his head: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

He laid the rose on the counter when he got home and crawled silently back into bed. Mary only stirred enough to drape her arm across him. He leaned his jaw against the crown of her head and fell away to sleep again.

The next morning… well. It was a bad day. Mary barely had the strength to leave the bed for trips to the loo. He begged off the surgery and spent the day taking care of her. Such days were coming more often, her weakness more severe. Sometimes being a doctor wasn’t an advantage. He knew what it meant. At dinner time, he placed the rose on her tray.

She lit up when she saw the flower. “Where’d this come from?”

“Magic.” He grinned. He squeezed her gently, and she hugged him back as best she could. It would be a long night.

It ended up being a long week. Cancer was heartless. He almost forgot to put in his request, his response. Mary was barely even conscious when the radio show started, and she was well asleep when it ended. He listened anyway. “Looks like The Blogger is back with another message for His Dearly Departed: To hell with subtlety. Expect a gift. Sounds like a love connection in the making to me, or an order of protection.”

 **_Well, baby, since I met you, I’ve never been the same  
_ ** **_There’s never been a woman make me feel this way  
_ ** **_And I know days are harder, and I know things have changed  
_ ** **_But, baby, goodbye, you know I just can’t say  
_ ** **_Where’d all the love go?  
_ ** **_I need you to know  
_ ** **_I’m singing out to you  
_ ** **_Tell me there’s something I can do_ ** ****

**_Radio waves, can you hear me singing out  
_ ** **_I’ve got something to say  
_ ** **_Can’t you hear I need you now?  
_ ** **_I’m calling on the two of us so we can be saved  
_ ** **_Listen to my radio waves_ ** ****

**_Clear across the city, you’re lying in your bed  
_ ** **_Here I am regretting every word unsaid  
_ ** **_The only way I know to help you understand  
_ ** **_Is say what’s going on the only way I can_ ** ****

**_Broadcast over FM  
_ ** **_Here we are again  
_ ** **_I’m singing out to you  
_ ** **_Tell me there’s something we can do_ **

When the broadcast was over, John carried Mary to bed. She lay exactly where he placed her, motionless. As he’d done at least a thousand times before, he leaned close to make sure he could hear her breathing. It was shallow, but she was alive. He blinked away a tear before heading to the car.

It was hard to keep his eyes on the road. The thing he was going to do was difficult… too difficult. His palms were sweaty, which made it imperative he didn’t fumble with the paper in his pocket too much. A letter is no good when the words are too blurred to read. He zoned out. The next time he was really paying attention, he was standing in front of Sherlock’s headstone.

“This is crazy, you know that?” he asked the shiny bit of rock. “I think I’m losing my mind. Maybe it’s the grief. I just can’t keep anyone I love, can I? If I ever see you again, I’m going to hit you.” He placed the letter on the grave, placed a small stone on top of it, and walked away. He could hear it fluttering in the breeze, beckoning him to retrieve it. He didn’t give in.

He drove a few laps around the cemetery, aimlessly. He could see the grave from the road, and he watched with each pass. Once, he was certain he saw the fleeting shadow of a coated figure pass in front of it. He stopped the car and sprinted toward the marker, out of breath by the time he arrived. It was the first time he’d forgotten his cane since Sherlock’s fall. The figure was gone, but so was the letter… another long-stem red rose lay in its place. Someone somewhere was reading John’s words.

_She’s dying to leave me, Sherlock… just like you did. She won’t be sending me mysterious messages through song when she’s gone, though. She’ll stay buried. I should have known you wouldn’t. I learned a lot from you… I think I worked it out. You were telling me, weren’t you? “It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.” You weren’t saying your brilliance was fake; you were trying to comfort me. You wanted me to know you weren’t really leaving me. Well, she is. And I have to watch, just like I had to watch you. There’s no one to help me through this one, though. Where are you? If you’re alive… if you wish me all the best… come back. This thing you’re doing, it’s not okay. I need you. Do you want me to say it? Do I have to admit it? I love you. I’ve always loved you. Maybe I had to lose everything to see through my own façade. Whatever I am, whatever it makes me, I love you. Please don’t make me go through this alone. Please, Sherlock. Begging a dead man… never mind me. Maybe you can look me up in the asylum. I won’t play this game anymore. No more songs. Find me or don’t, but I’m through._

John never put in another request, but he did receive one. “Looks like we have a reply this week. From His Dearly Departed to The Blogger: When the time comes, I’ll be there. Hm… something to think about, Blogger. Here’s your song.”

 **_You and I must make a pact  
_ ** **_We must bring salvation back  
_ ** **_Where there is love, I’ll be there_ ** ****

**_I’ll reach out my hand to you  
_ ** **_I’ll have faith in all you do  
_ ** **_Just call my name and I’ll be there_ ** ****

**_I’ll be there to comfort you  
_ ** **_Build my world of dreams around you  
_ ** **_I’m so glad that I found you_ ** ****

**_I’ll be there with a love that’s strong  
_ ** **_I’ll be your strength  
_ ** **_I’ll keep holding on_ **

John shook his head and flipped the radio off. _When the time comes? Who was he to decide? How about now?_

Things were progressing quickly with Mary, her health deteriorating by the day. John had started spending more time off work than not. They didn’t expect him in most days, and he appreciated not having to call and explain all the time.

He still waited impatiently each week for the request line, but his anticipation was in vain. It was still his turn, even if he refused to reply. Sherlock was stubborn, but so was he.

A few months later, Mary was gone. John was a widower, and it felt like it was for a second time. He stood stoic at a second funeral, similar condolences being passed in his direction. Maybe it was wrong, but it was nearly a relief this time. The only thing between him and his wife at the end was obligation and resentment. She had nothing left to give, and he was just… tired. He scoured the crowd. Now had to be ‘the time,’ didn’t it? The only Holmes in appearance though was Mycroft. He never looked John in the eyes after Sherlock’s fall, and that day was no different… Now it seemed obvious it was because he had known the truth all along. _A Holmes with a heart… or at least a conscience? Who knew?_

John stopped by Sherlock’s grave after Mary was laid to rest. Deep down, he hoped to find him there. He hoped to find something. No rose, no note, nothing. He drove home to an empty house. When he opened his door, he was greeted by violin music. A tall, thin figure made its way toward him, instrument tucked under its chin. The music trilled when the hand playing it began to tremble.

The only thing John could think to do was ball his fists and swing, but his knees gave way too quickly to follow through. He peered up from the floor, sharp cheek bones and piercing eyes staring down at him. Then they were face to face, both on the floor. The deeply bowed upper lip twitched as the man opened his mouth to speak before snapping it shut again.

John fell into the arms of a living, breathing ghost, his dearly departed… returned to him. As desperately as he wanted his fist to connect with Sherlock’s mouth, his lips beat him to the punch. It was only moments before clothes were being shed, and they had become nothing more than hands in curls, fingers against flesh, lips and tongues and teeth and heat. There was no time for words when everything that had been left unsaid was being so clearly expressed through heavy breathing and incoherent moans.

They barely made it to the bedroom, a place aching for new memories… ones full of life and love. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, stripped down to only a pair of black pants. John stood in front of him, looking him over, taking him in. His pale skin stretched over slight but defined musculature, dark curls just begging to be played with, enjoyed. An expectant expression beckoning John to say something, do something.

“I missed you,” John whispered and was on him before he could answer, Sherlock’s mouth silenced by the tongue occupying it. Sherlock’s reciprocation was the only response necessary.

John pressed Sherlock back into the mattress and shimmied the man’s pants down his thighs. He stopped at the knees and stared. His hands smoothed over Sherlock’s flesh, his fingertips dragging from nipples to abs to groin to thighs, where he gripped and spread. He tugged Sherlock’s pants the rest of the way down and chucked them across the room before quickly digging for a condom and lube in the nightstand. They hadn’t been touched in ages, but he was sure they were there. Once located, he placed the tube and foil packet on the bed, surprised to see the condom immediately tossed aside. He looked quizzically at his soon-to-be-lover.

“No. Just you,” Sherlock insisted.

“Sherlock, I—”

“Just you.” His voice came as something akin to a growl, and John’s will to argue was nonexistent.

John slid his own pants down and stepped out of them. The lube was cool on his skin until it warmed with the heat of Sherlock’s cock, his foreskin already retracted and pre-cum dripping from the slit. His own cock twitched at the sight. He was desperate for human connection, never mind sexual release. He palmed the gentle curve of Sherlock’s body, two slick fingers teasing and massaging his tight entrance. Sherlock was already biting his lip and drew in a harsh breath when John wriggled one finger inside. He watched the man’s eyes fall closed, his chest and abdomen beginning to rise and fall with slow, even breaths. He twisted to get up to the second knuckle and then again to go as deeply as possible. Sherlock tensed when he added a second finger, but he acclimated quickly. After a reassuring nod, John slowly began to slip them in and out rhythmically. After a moment of quasi-awkward searching, he found the bundle of nerves he sought and brushed it with each thrust. The pitiful whimper drawn from Sherlock’s lips was more than payment enough for his effort.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to demand more, pressing hard against John’s hand, fucking himself on it. John had next to no restraint. His desire to replace his fingers with his prick was immense. It was only a few more moments before the last of his self-control drained from his body. Quickly slicking himself with lube, he lined up and slowly entered. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt the heat of another’s flesh enveloping his cock… touching him sexually at all. His arms were wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s thighs, and the vision before him was one of absolute beauty.

Sherlock lightly fingered his own scrotum, his palm flat and massaging his cock. Then, those long, elegant fingers John had so often admired when clutching the violin’s bow were now encircling Sherlock’s erection. He watched his partner stroke himself, slowly, deliberately.

He sank further in and began to thrust, still watching intently. If the friction against his cock hadn’t been so delicious, he’d have pulled out in favour of taking Sherlock into his mouth. He salivated at the thought, and fucked Sherlock harder to drive the thought from his mind.

Sherlock’s breaths were still measured, but coming a bit more ragged with each stroke. He matched John’s rhythm and pace with each stroke, tiny little squeaks emanating melodically from the man’s throat in perfect time. He clearly wouldn’t last long if left to his own devices.

John let Sherlock’s legs drop and fell forward onto his palms, pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s neck and letting his teeth sink in a bit. Despite it being an attempt to slow their progress, he only felt the fist at his groin moving faster and more furiously with the sensation. Prime directive: Failed. The intel gained was well worth it, though. He licked at the shell of Sherlock’s ear before whispering, “Do you want to cum?” Sherlock’s breath came in a huff, a rough nod in the affirmative accompanying it.  “Then do it. Cum across your fist and let me lick it clean. I want to kiss you and make you taste yourself in my mouth.” He bit Sherlock’s earlobe. “Cum, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s strokes became fast and erratic, and he jerked as he came, tensing and tightening around John’s cock in the most glorious ways. Eventually, he squeezed his hand from between their bodies, and John licked a wide stripe up the center of Sherlock’s palm. He took the soiled digits into his mouth, sucking them clean, and licked between them, paying special attention to the webbing where they connected to Sherlock’s hand. When there was nothing left, he pressed his mouth hard against Sherlock’s and hummed when he felt Sherlock’s tongue eagerly lapping at his own.

John ground intensely into Sherlock’s arse, rolling his own hips against Sherlock’s quick bucking. It seemed obvious his partner wouldn’t mind a less than impressive performance. He pulled back and pounded in a few more times, and then moved with immense intent. He could feel the pressure building, all the months of repressing his own sexual needs in honour of caring for someone he had barely even loved anymore, all the years of pent up desire he had harboured for the man writhing beneath him.

John started spewing the sentiment he’d kept inside for so long. “I watched you die.” Each statement was punctuated by a harsh thrust. “I mourned you.” He pressed harder and deeper every time. “I cried for you.” He was absolutely pounding into Sherlock, whose fists were balled tightly around the bed sheets.

“More.” Sherlock gripped John’s jaw. “Harder.”

“I wanted to hate you.” John’s fingers threaded into Sherlock’s curls, and he yanked his head roughly to the side. He pressed his face near Sherlock’s ear. “You left me. I fucking loved you, and you left me alone… with her,” he growled, his vision going black with rage and white with ecstasy in one fail swoop. Euphoria washed his anger away with each pump as he emptied himself into Sherlock.

After John pulled out, Sherlock turned onto his side as John settled next to him. “They’d have killed you, you know? You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson… They’d have killed you all if I hadn’t left.”

“How’d you know I’d be listening to hear your messages?”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock’s lips twitched into a sad smile. “It really did need saying, even if you never heard it.”

“Hmmm… Your sentiment is showing, Mr. Holmes.” John pondered. “But you’re safe now? _We’re_ safe now?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I believe so. It doesn’t matter, though. You needed me.”

John playfully grabbed at Sherlock’s arse, his fingers accidentally dragging through the trail of his own semen leaking from his partner. “Mmm… needed you.” He winced, holding his hand in front of Sherlock. “I somehow doubt this was what you had in mind.”

“To think you said you were observing.” Sherlock struck forward, sucking John’s fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them and pressing it between them.

John’s eyes widened. “You only came back in hopes of a quick and dirty shag?”

“I’d rather hoped for more than one.” His gaze flicked toward John’s cock, which was already giving serious consideration to a second round. “How long do you need?”

John rolled Sherlock onto his back and straddled his waist. “Well, that all depends.” He pinned the man’s wrists to the bed above his head. He wasn’t playing the part of the bereaved spouse very well, but he had finished mourning his wife long before her body gave out. It was nearly impossible to be forlorn in the face of Sherlock’s return, in light of what was finally happening between them. He didn’t wish to force sorrow upon himself out of obligation. He was done with obligation.

“Depends? On?”

“What’s it going to take to get you to say it?”

“To say what?” Sherlock chuckled.

“ _It,_ ” John repeated himself with more force.

“Seriously, John.” Sherlock sighed. “Does it really need saying?”

John nodded solemnly. “It does… It really does.”

“Fine.” Sherlock’s tone was aloof, bratty. “I love you.”

“Mmm… almost.” John reached back and stroked Sherlock’s cock as a reward for his minimal effort. “Try again, though.”

“Nnnng… I love you.” The previous attitude had given way to desperation surprisingly quickly.

John slicked his palm and stroked Sherlock again, increasingly impressed by his infinitesimal refractory period. “Closer.”

Sherlock shuddered but steeled himself and focused. John was caught in his gaze when he spoke again. “I’ve been fascinated by you since the first moment we met. You held my interest in a world that served only to bore me. You killed for me, risked your life for me, mourned for me, and saw fit to love me even in my death. You are a remarkable man, John Watson, and I love you.”

John had worked his fingers into his own arse, gently stretching himself until he stilled at Sherlock’s words. That speech deserved a much more substantial prize. He extracted his fingers and pressed himself slowly onto Sherlock’s cock. The burn was subtle and rewarding, especially under the circumstances. “Quite right, too.” He tried to keep his cool, pushing further on to Sherlock, enveloping him a centimeter at a time. He hissed when he finally sank flush against Sherlock’s thighs.

It was strange for John, suddenly needing things from Sherlock he never even vaguely realized he wanted. As much as he had given consideration to a more intimate relationship with his best friend, he never once thought he would be desperate to feel the man inside him. He had meant it when he said he wasn’t gay, and somehow he still felt he wasn’t. It wasn’t about man or woman or what was between their legs… It was about the connection, the emotion, the sentiment. Loving Sherlock didn’t have to redefine who he was, it wouldn’t. He did it out of necessity. He was unable to do anything else, unable to truly love anyone else.

John could feel the distant sensation of Sherlock’s hands on him, but it wasn’t as important as the sights and sounds before him. Dark curls wringing with sweat. Eyes snapping open with one movement and fluttering shut with another. A bottom lip sucked in and held firm between upper and lower teeth. The subtlety of tendons stretched beneath the skin of a strained neck. The quiet whimpers emanating from within that throat. A chest, which rose and fell more smoothly than the sound of each inhale and exhale would suggest. The beauty of abdominal muscles that gracefully rippled with each thrust.  Fingernails, fingertips, and palms that maneuvered expertly across his own body.

Electricity flowed through John in waves. Whether it was endorphins or pheromones or maybe the intense desire to forget where he had been only hours before, he had never been so lost in himself. He had never before given himself over so completely to pleasure. The room around him disappeared, and it was only him and Sherlock. The last time the world had stopped in such a way was during the phone call from the roof of St. Bart’s.

He clung to Sherlock, suddenly aware they were sitting upright. He didn’t know when or how it had happened, only that it felt amazing. His fingers were woven into Sherlock’s hair, and he was mumbling, “Please don’t leave me again, please don’t leave me again, please don’t leave me again.” The tears streaming down his cheeks were even more surprising than the sound of his own voice.

“Never. I’m so sorry, John. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.” The quiet timbre of Sherlock’s baritone making promises and apologies startled him before soothing him.

Their mouths connected, John’s hips still rolling upon their own volition, and he came roughly between their bodies. Sherlock’s grip on his shoulder tightened, the form in his clutches going rigid, their lips mere micrometers apart with hot breath passing back and forth between them. A warmth filled John, and the tears came faster. Losing Sherlock before had been agony, but losing him now would spell John’s death. He didn’t ever want to let go, couldn’t let go.

Sherlock’s arms around his waist stilled him, and he steadied his gaze. Crystalline eyes peered back at him, full of fear and adoration. They made silent commitments, and it was somehow enough. John nodded, answering a question that hadn’t been asked. The kiss he received in response was forged from guilt and gratitude. It was done… Concessions were made, treaties were signed, heartaches were reconciled, and sins were forgiven. The future was theirs to lose, but in that moment, it was fine… it was all fine.


End file.
